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~ an experimental creative laboratory by Mark Snyder

Radical Totality

Tag Archives: Moloch

Moloch #4 (Undo)

18 Tuesday Dec 2012

Posted by Mark Snyder in poetry

≈ 10 Comments

Tags

Bushmaster, flarf, Moloch, Newtown, poetry, school shooting

Superman flies at Moloch, who hurts Superman with his flaming body before

the Superfriends TV show character; instead, he is one of Bushmaster’s old foes.

 

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2 days ago – Ever since then, worship of Moloch has been the sign of

a deeply degraded  Sig-Sauer pistol, a Glock pistol and a Bushmaster assault rifle.

 

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Yes, it seems scary that you can buy a Bushmaster Patrolman’s.

Lanza Used Bushmaster .223 Rifle to Kill.

 

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1 day ago – Wills: ‘The Gun is Our Moloch.’

Guns “like” a Bushmaster have been exceeding popular and widely sold in this country for Allen Ginsberg –

Moloch. 

It is one of the classic poems of the Beat Generation. 

Moloch whose Soul is Allen Ginsberg.

Howl (with Kronos Quartet) · Bushmaster Crazyhorse Howl.

 

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Profile of a gun: The Bushmaster M4 carbine, weapon used in Newtown and by Our Moloch.

Few crimes are more harshly forbidden in the Message Board.

 

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Moloch…  all about ar’s, and saying its cheaper to build them and you can buy the kits from bushmaster.

 

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You see, you’re not officially a man until Bushmaster tells you you are.

We have to make that offering, out of devotion to our Moloch, our god.

A horrific crime was identified as a Bushmaster AR-15 assault weapon.

 

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Moloch #3 (for Reba)

17 Monday Dec 2012

Posted by Mark Snyder in poetry

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

child abuse, Moloch, poetry

Stupid.

Dramatic.

Useless.

Motherfucker.

Coffee can.

God dammit.

Hold still.

Belt.

Belt.

God dammit.

Belt.

Belt.

Belt.

Belt.

Son of a bitch.

Belt.

Belt.

Belt.

Belt.

Belt.

Belt.

Belt.

Belt.

Belt.

Belt.

Belt.

Shut up.

Burn.

Open letter to Moloch

15 Saturday Dec 2012

Posted by Mark Snyder in poetry

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

child abuse, Moloch, Newtown, poetry, psychiatry, school shooting, trauma, work

What more do you want?

 

How many more have to die?

 

How many more will live,

but will come see me years later,

begging for Xanax or Oxycontin

so they can endure the memory

of burning in sacrifice to you?

 

I don’t remember it but I know

the smell of burning flesh.

Your brand is on my forearm.

 

I too was offered to you,

but you didn’t kill me,

and now I spend my days

bandaging those burned

in sacrifice to you

 

and the wounded keep on coming

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